


Tan

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier Pankratz might be many things, but he isn’t a liar. Others may disagree. Those others may have documented evidence of how much Jaskier actually can lie; but it’s all slander. He’s an honest man. So when Geralt poses the question to him, of is he spending an inordinate amount of time staring at the Witcher’s bare back and arms and legs, of course he isn’t going to lie.--Jaskier and Geralt go to the coast and reflect on how life is going.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 134
Collections: MaMooRoo BIKM Bingo





	Tan

**Author's Note:**

> "...reflect on how life is going."
> 
> This started off as a "oh, Jaskier just watches his boyfriend swim and walk the beach, getting a good tan and stuff, haha, prompt filled" and then *angst* got involved. 
> 
> Enjoy ;)

Jaskier Pankratz might be many things, but he isn’t a liar. Others may disagree. Those others may have documented evidence of how much Jaskier actually _can_ lie; but it’s all slander. He’s an honest man. So when Geralt poses the question to him, of is he spending an inordinate amount of time staring at the Witcher’s bare back and arms and legs, of course he isn’t going to lie.

“Absolutely,” Jaskier beams. He’s loathe to move. The sun perched in the sky scorches the sands underneath him, warming his skin and luring beads of sweat prickling his skin. A sea’s breeze rolls in every so often, the tang of salt stinging the inside of his nose. But he’s laid out on a beach, watching Geralt wring most of the seawater from his hair, and he’s absolutely not going to move.

The coast is kind. It’s kinder than anywhere else in the Continent, but the Continent isn’t particularly kind these days. Some may call it _fleeing_. Jaskier would argue that they’re just taking a break, a breather, if you will. Geralt can’t perform his Witcher and destiny duties if he’s worn out and exhausted from the path. That’s the argument Jaskier hands to anyone who sends them letters, asking from the Witcher to come back on to the path and see to their pests and problems. And every single one of those letters bursts into flame with a quick Sign cast. Jaskier has taken to just stuffing them into the nearest paper bin, but whatever suits.

Even though the sharp shine from the sun makes him squint, and he can’t quite make out Geralt’s face, he can only assume that his Witcher is rolling his eyes and a grumpy sort of look has etched into his face. It’s become his favourite activity lately; compliment Geralt and watch him fluster. Now that it’s just the two of them, without any wandering eyes of tavern-goers or people passing in the streets of a town or city. It’s just them and miles of coastline; white sand beaches and a sea that gently laps against the shore.

Geralt does sit beside him though. A long swim up and down the length of the shore has speckled his skin with salt. Jaskier doesn’t mind. He manages to muster just enough energy to roll on to his side, throwing out an arm in some effort to snag the Witcher’s leg and drag him closer. Attre sits just above the scorching south, and Jaskier can feel it. They don’t spend too long out on the beach, mostly uncovered with their underclothes still on. On days where he’s absolutely _certain_ that it will only be the two of them, Jaskier has managed to lure Geralt completely bare.

Just to make sure whatever tan he gets is even, of course. Absolutely for no other reason.

The beach is theirs for the day, it seems. The village a few miles away keeps to itself, only drifting out this far to haul in shellfish traps cast further out into the sea. But Jaskier has noted their comings and goings, and this is going to be a quieter day. It’s going to be just the two of them, unless some other villagers wander to the beach because of the kind weather.

He watches Geralt settle down beside him, sighing as he claims the other side of the towel set down for them. Jaskier’s eyes wander over Geralt’s neck and shoulders, with drops of stray seawater dripping down and trailing down his bare back. Jaskier reaches out, brushing his fingertips over Geralt’s warmed skin.

“The sun has been kind to you,” he hums, watching where his fingers trace. He’s mapped every inch of Geralt’s body; from plains of skin and muscle to scars. And the days of Geralt flinching away from him are long gone. He spent too much time trying to assure Geralt that it’s okay, he deserved to be revered and worshipped and kissed and touched. He’s a _person_ , not the monster the Continent thinks that he is.

Geralt tilts his head back, letting the sun kiss his face for a moment. His white hair catches the light and shines brightly around him, standing out all the more. Jaskier watches him for a moment, knowing that he’s enjoying himself. The promise to come here, whispered on top of a mountain, Jaskier fearing that it may have been carried off with the wind. His heart stilled in his chest when Geralt approached him the next day, his sleeping bag and pack in hand, motioning for him to follow. Golden dragons and destiny-binding wishes, Geralt needed to forget all of it.

Jaskier took them as far away as he could. Attre is just shy of the mountains separating the northern kingdoms from Nilfgaard. They won’t linger long. Whispers of insurgents and a growing southern army amassing just beyond the peaks do drift with the wind. And he ignores them for as much as they can. Those kinds of whispers have been dusting his ears for years, and there’s still no sight or sound of any Nilfgaardian setting foot inside the northern kingdoms.

When the whispers get louder, then they’ll head north. They’ll go to Kaer Morhen and trade the Attre sun for blistering cold winds that howl through crumbling stone walls. They’ll be safe, at least. The keep is so far away from the eyes of humans, maybe they can stay up there. As long as Geralt is with him, he really doesn’t mind where he is.

Jaskier leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher arches an eyebrow, turning to look at him and watch Jaskier rest his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “I wish we could stay here,” he murmurs, looking out on to the ocean. It’s as bright and clear as it’s always been, even with summer beginning to wane. It’s a fever-heat now, growing and growing and waiting to break; and the moment it does, Geralt will have to plan his trek home to the keep on the mountains.

Until then, he’s happy to watch the late summer sun perch high in the sky every day and scald everything below it. Geralt’s skin has steadily been tanning, making the faint white lines of his scars stand out even more. And Jaskier kisses every single one of them, making sure that Geralt still knows and understands that he is loved.

Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile when he feels Geralt relax underneath him. The Witcher shifts, turning his head and letting it hang. Golden eyes watch Jaskier for a moment. He can feel them warming his skin alongside the sun. The Witcher sighs; something long and languid. A familiar arm curls around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him close. The scent of seawater and Geralt’s usual scent coats the roof of his mouth. A smell he’ll make sure gets embedded into every pore of his skin. He won’t ever be without Geralt, but he wants him by his side all the time. And sometimes, during hunts where Jaskier is sternly told to _sit_ and _stay_ , he’ll wrap one of Geralt’s blankets around him and sit through the wait.

He has the real thing nearby now, only ever an arm’s reach away. Jaskier’s smile only grows.

Geralt’s voice rumbles out of the core of his chest. “You’d forgive someone for thinking that the world is turning to shit.”

Jaskier hums. The sea does what it’s always done; lapping gently against the sand, shuffling stones about before retreating back for another wave to lull in. Distantly, Jaskier can hear the telltale squawking of seabirds heading towards the village in some slim hope of picking scraps from the fish markets. Sounds that he’s grown steadily used to. They’re familiar.

He curls an arm around Geralt’s, lying flush into his side despite the heat of the sun. The sun might scald his skin and turn it darker, but Geralt’s warmth burrows into his muscles and settles in the marrows of his bones. The type of warmth that has his eyelids growing heavy and his lips soft and loose. “It is,” he agrees, because there’s really no point in lying to Geralt. He already knows how terrible and unfair things can be. He tightens his hold on his Witcher, hoping it’s enough to keep him grounded and with him. “But it’s just a passing storm. We’ve weathered our fair share of those, haven’t we? This is just another one. It might be rough and last for a while, but the skies will clear eventually.”

Even though he can’t see the Witcher’s face, he knows there’s a small smile curling along Geralt’s lips. Or at least trying to. He’s awful at trying to hide his smiles from Jaskier, knowing that the bard would just lord it over him if he knew that Geralt, gods forbid, _liked him_.

Jaskier turns, pressing another kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, letting his lips linger on the man’s skin for a moment. “We’ll be fine,” he murmurs, promising. “We’ll be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
